


Picture This

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:29:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’d like to state for the record, I still don’t understand why we’re doing this,” said Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kanarek13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarek13/gifts).



> Many thanks to mergatrude for beta.

## Picture This

“I’d like to state for the record, I still don’t understand why we’re doing this,” said Peter. He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room, shirtless, with his hands on his hips. 

“You don’t have to understand why,” said Neal from behind him. “You’re humoring me. Now keep still.” His finger slid under the left strap, straightening and smoothing, and Peter nearly forgot his self-consciousness.

“And there is no ‘for the record,’ hon,” said El from the doorway. She drank a mouthful of wine and winked at him. “This is strictly off the record.”

Peter stole another glance toward the dining room window, where the blind was only halfway down, and El shook her head fondly and went to lower it the rest of the way.

Neal gave the straps one last tug and ducked around to admire his handiwork. “Wow,” he said. “Shame we can’t put you on a Christmas card. It would beat Satchmo in a reindeer hat.”

“If you really wanted it to be festive, you’d have to give him a halo too.” El was clearly enjoying herself. 

“Or a flaming sword,” said Peter, drily. He didn’t see himself as an angel, but apparently Neal had a thing for the idea of it. Or for the wing part, anyway. And after some persistent persuasion, Peter had agreed. He turned carefully—the wings were huge, and he didn’t want to break anything—and eyed himself in the mirror. His own head and shoulders framed with two wings, wide and arching, eagle-brown along the leading edge out to the primaries, and lighter secondaries blending into swan-white on the undersides. When he flexed his shoulders, the wings came alive, quivering in the air.

El handed Neal the camera—phones were out of the question; far too hackable—and he snapped a few shots. 

“Hey,” Neal said, softly. “Forget the wings, look at me.”

And Peter did—he looked at Neal, his lover, and thought about everything it had cost them to get here, the risks and heartache along the way, and how it had all been utterly worth it. How their relationship had made his and El’s life richer in a million different ways. He wouldn’t go back and change a thing.

The camera shutter flickered, clicking quietly. 

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Neal, his gaze warm and private.

“My turn.” El had put down her wineglass, and she snagged the camera out of Neal’s hand and gave him a gentle push toward Peter. “Come on—put on a show for me.”

Neal grinned. “What the lady wants—”

He stepped forward and rested his hand on the slope of Peter’s shoulder, and ran a finger along the edge of one of the wings. His breathing shallowed. Peter cupped his jaw and pulled him in and kissed him. “Merry Christmas.”

The camera shutter clicked.

“You know,” said El, her voice sweet with fake innocence, “it would look even more amazing if you took your shirt off too, Neal.”

Neal grinned at Peter. “Has anyone ever told you your wife’s a pervert?”

“What the lady wants,” said Peter, smiling back. He unbuttoned Neal’s shirt and pushed it from his shoulders, the wings swinging wide as his shoulders moved.

“Careful, honey,” said El, a second too late. A photo from the mantelpiece fell to the floor. Luckily, it landed harmlessly on Satchmo’s mat.

“We should have done this somewhere with more room to move,” muttered Peter.

Neal kissed him. “You didn’t want to do it in the park.”

“It’s 35 degrees out.” Peter tried to return the kiss without moving. “Pretty sure we could have come up with a less dramatic option. How about one of Mozzie’s safe houses?”

“He’s very protective of them,” said Neal. “Shhh.” He ran his hand down Peter’s chest, over the straps, hooked his fingers into the waistband of Peter’s pants, and sank to his knees.

“Oh,” said El. The camera shutter clicked a few more times.

“We’re going to have to find somewhere secure to store those photos,” worried Peter aloud.

“Seriously, Peter? Focus.” Neal unfastened Peter’s fly and pulled his briefs out of the way.

Peter’s mouth went dry. He swallowed. The camera shutter went click-click-click, as Neal slid his lips torturously slowly along the length of Peter’s hardening cock, engulfing him. Peter hissed and widened his stance, unsteady and unbearably aroused. Even the wings were a turn-on now, part of a strange sex play that was clearly having a potent effect on Neal and El. Peter didn’t need to get it to appreciate their reactions. And the constraint of not being able to move freely was—exciting in its novelty.

Neal was gripping Peter’s thigh with one hand, working him with the other and with his mouth, and Peter could feel their desire mounting together, like a swell of music, tension pulling the moment tight around them, the scent of pine trees and cinnamon in the air, the camera clicking away in the background. He twisted very slightly, angling carefully, swinging his right wing around till its lower edge whispered against Neal’s shoulder. 

Neal shuddered in response, groaned, and it felt so good, _so good_ , that Peter’s breath punched out of him, and he put his hands on Neal’s head and began to rock into Neal’s mouth. He couldn’t help himself, even when things started falling to the floor around them. By then it was too late, he was losing it, helpless, and as he came, his shout was drowned out by a god almighty crash. 

Neal sat back on his heels, flushed and laughing, and swallowed. Peter looked over his own shoulder, through the confusion of feathers. Just as well they’d shut Satchmo outside, where he couldn’t gobble up any of the decorations. They’d taken out the Christmas tree.

El was giggling too. “It’s a crying shame,” she said, peering at the display screen on the camera. “These Christmas cards would have been _epic_.”

 

END


End file.
